The month is here, two dates like two fearless moths buzzing a white light inside a chenille robe of night. Listen. The silence. The moths ate the heat, dusted that god, and watt by watt darkness left baby day to yawn. My love, my impossible ghost, why do you come vacant-eyed, cotton pockets turned out with blue-linted seams the color of high sky? Heaven has altered your profile as life has altered mine. Gone is the bump and bend of your magnificent nose, Gallic, so adored traced by these fingers in the braille of afterglow. Remember White Horse? Remember McAllister? Narrow roads dead-ending in overlooks. Top down on your Chevy. Were the city lights stars and nights’ lights lit waiting rooms? You enter my house on the ocean’s edge, waver with unspoken words, exhaust understanding. I am unrecognizable. Pushed to tide’s extreme highs and tumbled as stones on the playa, what wings you once believed worn by this angel are gone, and the fingers of hands unable to hold, and the tongue. Please go. Return to one of night’s rooms. I want this infant day, the peony quiet and lavender prickles, shadowed nopal, nasturtiums vining, your profile as it was with mine turning, turning. Turning.